Stalking Used To Be Difficult

Frank missed the good old days when stalking was difficult. It used to be that you would have to put in real legwork to track your quarry. He remembered the thrill of walking through dark neighborhoods, lurking in bushes, and stealing mail from actual mailboxes. Back before cell phones, when everyone had a land line and there was no caller ID, and he could call in the middle of the night and listen to the groggy, panicked "Hello?!" And then stay silent until they hung up in confusion and fear. 

The old cars, you could turn off all of the lights and creep along the asphalt in near total darkness. Then pull the emergency brake to slow down, so not even your brake lights would glow red and give you away. 

Now all these new cars have automatic "running lights" that never turn off. 

Not that there was much legwork to do anymore. People now just give all their information away. A few social media sites, and maybe a subscription to one of those professional networking sites, and you could learn almost everything about a person. 

Through the pictures they posted, he knew where they liked to eat, what their families like, where they shopped and went out for fun, and even who had guns and who didn't.

Frank supposed that there might be some gun owners who didn't broadcast their ownership online, but if so he never encountered them. If he ever wasn't sure, a little comment on their posts (from a fake profile of course) asking them to sign an online petition to ban "assault rifles" (they really hated that term) would pretty quickly suss out where stood. 

He didn't care about guns himself; he liked a challenge. He was a little surprised at first, because back in the good old days everyone was against any registration of their weapons and now here they were advertising it to the world. There was a message board for stalkers, Frank knew, but he wasn't stupid enough to ever go on there. As if the government wasn't already monitoring it. 

The youth of today, really, they weren't paranoid enough. 

Frank was excited tonight. He had been following this lovely blonde for a while. She was about his age, and smart. She didn't post anything online. She probably had a government job; those federal types were usually more careful about that. She lived in a gated community, but not a real one with actual security, just that kind that had a little metal box that you punched in a code, usually # and then whatever year it was 30 years ago. Everyone just used their birth year for those things and you could get it in a few guesses. 

It did make it harder for him to find out which house was hers, since it was much more conspicuous when someone was following you. And everyone had garages here, so even though he knew what her car looked like, she doubted she parked on the street. 

She mostly had no online presence, but what she did have was a wishlist on an online shopping site. Once Frank had found that, the rest was easy. He ordered a few things from her list that seemed romantic; some scented candles, lingerie, and hand cream. He wasn't quite at the total to qualify for the free same-day shipping, so he put a bag of quicklime into the virtual cart. It didn't seem to fit with all the other girly stuff in her list; maybe she was a gardener. That would be good too, because the bigger the box, the easier it would be to see what house it was delivered to. 

And that's how he found out exactly where she lived. 

Frank waited until midnight, then he made his move. Her house had a basement window that faced away from the street. He had found the original layout from the online real estate listings site. He could tell from the pictures that she still had the original windows, which had were set in wooden tracks, and this type of window had a hook-and-eye latch that would easily come loose with a side-to-side wiggle of the window sash. 

He slowly slid the window up, and slipped backwards through the opening, on his stomach, to land on the floor below. 

Except there wasn't a floor below the window. 

The basement flooring had been removed, and there was a gaping, earthen pit. Sharpened pieces of rebar lined the bottom, and they broke his fall by piercing his arms, legs, and back. 

He gasped and flailed weakly, but he was helpless, like an insect pinned to a specimen board. 

He was facing upwards, and he saw the face of the pretty blonde looking down at him. 

"Hi Frank!" She said brightly. "I'll be with you in a moment." She lowered a ladder into the pit and climbed down carefully. Frank was having trouble breathing. She turned to him, and he saw she had a large kitchen knife.

"Thanks for the quicklime," she continued. "It really helps with the cleanup." Frank stared at the gleaming knife, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "Oh this?" She brandished the knife like an olympic fencer. "I guess it isn't necessary, since you'll be dead in a few minutes anyway. I guess I just miss the good old days, you know?" She bent over and looked directly into his eyes. "Yeah, you know."

After Frank was finally dead, she kept stabbing, for the practice. 

THE END

Author's Note: We here at the blog do not condone the cool crime of digging a spiked murder pit in your basement to deal with home intruders. This story is dedicated to my friend Kristen who I had a crush on freshman year of high school and I offered to walk her home once because I read some old book probably and thought that was a nice thing to do to show you liked someone but in practice it turns out it's kinda creepy. So again, I am sorry about that. Again, we became regular friends afterwards and shoot has it really been 25 years? Time flies when you're having fun, I guess. Speaking of which, it's midnight on a Friday night so I best get these old bones to bed. I've got a big day tomorrow of driving my nephews to and from work, and...writing I guess? Not a novel... But something. Goodnight, and I love you all.